


you give love a bad name

by albion



Series: mcgenji week 2016 [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Assassins, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, mild Identity Porn, that's the fic they're domestic assassins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: Click.
The assassin stiffens, head snapping up from where he was bent examining the photographs. There is a firm press of a gun barrel against the back of his neck, gentle. Like the touch of a lover.The click he heard was the safety. Day Three: Domestic.





	

He cracks open the window with a quick slide of his _tantō_ , pushes up the glass and slides in through the gap. He lands quietly, feet making barely a sound on the carpet. Surveys his surroundings. It’s dim, and quiet. Very quiet. He is standing in the master bedroom on the second floor of the house. From the still open window behind him a breeze whistles in. The heavy crimson curtains lift with it, caress at his back like ghostly fingers. There’s a creaky floorboard two steps to his left, beside the holoset which rests on a dark wooden stand, and a stain five steps in front of him where somebody had once spilled black coffee. Though the rest of the room is shrouded in darkness, the moonlight behind him illuminates the stain against the dark carpet. A single blemish in an otherwise pristine bedroom.

The assassin crouches, crabwalks half a metre to his right and reaches behind him for the hilt of his sword. He’s memorized the layout of this place, a suburban white picket fence affair, surrounded by one tall hedge on the east side and a row of poplar trees on the other. This prevents nosey neighbours.

According to all his calculations, there will be a tripwire ten centimetres from his left foot if he makes one more step. Carefully does it.

The mission is crucial.

There’s an ensuite bathroom seven steps away, past the queen sized bed that takes up the majority of space. Low and heavy and wooden, it stands an imposing figure. Its covers are made crisply, patterned lines of black and red cut across the fabric of the coverlet. Modern taste. On the nightstand nearest to the ensuite door rests an old fashioned grandfather clock in miniature, ticking. From his previous observations on the residents, he knows it had been a gift from a great-uncle.

Frankly, it’s hideous.

He curls his hand around the hilt of his sword, draws it out carefully. The blade makes a quiet hissing noise as it is revealed into the still air. The hiss of a dragon. Pauses to count. Fifteen seconds since he’d landed on the bedroom floor. Which meant there were only five more seconds until—

The knives suddenly come hurtling out from their hidden location in the blades of the ceiling fan, and with reflexes of lightning, the assassin deftly deflects them all, the sound of metal against metal overly loud in the silent bedroom. There’s a muffled crashing sound, a strange metallic twang, and he realizes quickly it’s the disgusting clock. He flinches. Most of the knives he had managed to launch back into the air and onto the bedspread, fabric eating up most of the sharp crack of impact.

 _Most_ of them. There is one he deflected poorly, which now rests happily amidst broken glass, speared right through the centre of the clock on the nightstand, between the V and VI. The sound of the clock, unlike the others, will have carried.

He will pay for that error later, in some fashion. But as he pauses to listen, he hears no noise from downstairs, no sudden _thump thump thump_ of frantic feet running up the stairs to investigate the intrusion.

Nevertheless, his only chance now will be to finish the mission quickly and make his escape. He has made a fatal error, and he has been compromised.

The assassin rises slowly to his feet, checking carefully around him for any other sensors. None, apart from the tripwire he’d identified before. A silent step over it. One foot, then another. He paces quickly to the broken clock, checks to see the damage.

Luckily, through some miracle, the throwing knife only speared the crystal. It now rests in the clock face, halting the movement of the minute hand, which shudders and twitches, aimlessly fighting to get past the obstruction of the blade. He reaches in, pulls the slim knife free, tosses it onto one dark plush pillow. The minute hand resumes ticking happily.

He reaches out to pick up some of the shards of glass from the clock crystal. If he’s careful, perhaps he can avoid leaving any evidence behind. But as he does so, his arm jostles against another object on the nightstand, nearly sending it crashing to the floor. He swoops to catch it before it falls, thanking his enhanced reflexes. The object lands safely in his palm. Exhaling deeply, the assassin goes to set it back down on the nightstand, next to the clock. Then stops. Examines the curious object.

It’s a picture frame. A frame in triptych, with three separate photographs. Snapshots of the lives of this house’s residents. In the first picture farthest to the right, clearly fairly old, a young man stands with another who resembles him. Siblings perhaps. They look happy. One of the youths has bright green hair.

He skips over the middle photograph to examine the picture furthest to the left. Two more men. These two are probably not related. One has hair the colour of charcoal and a grim, rough face that bears scars and the signs of a harsh life. He stands solidly, arms crossed and posture rigid. Next to him there is another man, younger but no less taller, who has his arms thrown around the pole of a lamppost. He appears to be pretending to make love to it. The older man is rolling his eyes.

And in the middle, a snapshot of two men. One of them is the youth who had been embracing the lamppost. The other man does not physically resemble any found in the previous pictures, but his eyes are visible in the photograph, and he is clearly recognizable as one from the first picture, the youth with green hair.

One man plucked from each side. One from east, and one from west. By the looks of it, it was a sunny day when this photo was taken. They have their arms around each other, heads bowed in close, holding up their left hands for the camera. Two slim bands of gold on each ring finger. Lovers. Husbands.

 _They met in Cambodia_ , the assassin remembers. This information wasn’t garnered from previous stalking or deduction. This he just knows.

_Click._

The assassin stiffens, head snapping up from where he was bent examining the photographs. There is a firm press of a gun barrel against the back of his neck, gentle. Like the touch of a lover.

The click he heard was the safety.

“Looks like I’ve caught myself a burglar,” a voice says, low and drawling. Like cream in coffee, rich and smooth. The accent gives him away as one of the husbands from the photo. He would know this man’s voice even if heard only in the distance.

The assassin doesn’t turn around. His hand aches for the hilt of his sword.

The gun barrel presses harder against his neck. “Don’t touch your weapons,” the man says.

The assassin knows when he’s been beaten. He sighs, accepts his fate. The man with the gun moves quickly, one hand deftly ridding him of his swords and shuriken. A quick sweep from head to toe. The assassin doesn’t miss the hand that lingers longer than it should on the curve of his ass and his hip. This is entirely unnecessary. The assassin does not have any concealed weapons there.

This utterly confirms all prior theories and observation. This man is a lecher. He will be sure to report it in.

Once his swords are confiscated, the man makes a soft grunt of satisfaction. “You can turn around now. Slowly. I still got this gun on you, and my trigger finger gets mighty twitchy sometimes.”

The assassin follows orders, turns around slowly. Stares down the barrel of the gun that now rests above the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.

Stares up into the shadowed face of his husband, who’s currently wearing a pink apron.

McCree grins. And then scowls. “You’re late.”

The gun is removed. The assassin notices with relief that his forefinger actually hadn’t been anywhere near the trigger. Bluffing.

Genji acquiesces, sighs loudly. “I’m late. I know.”

“I made a _fantastic_ pot roast and now it’s getting cold, because you decided you didn’t wanna come home.”

Genji actually feels rather bad about this, despite the fact it wasn’t really his fault the op had taken so long. There had been many problems. The mark hadn’t behaved. Had taken longer than expected to die. But Jesse takes so much _pride_ in his cooking. Genji had planned to be home earlier—he’d planned for Jesse to not notice him sneaking in their bedroom window, he’d planned for—

Jesse peers past him, over his shoulder, at the nightstand. “ _And_ you broke the clock.”

Genji shrugs. “It was hideous anyway.”

“It was a gift from my great-uncle! You can’t just go around deflecting our knives into it!”

“I said nothing when you put a bullet in our old tea set,” Genji retorts.

“That’s because it was from Hanzo.” Jesse’s never liked his brother-in-law.

“It was worth a fortune.”

“I know.” McCree lowers his gun, wipes one hand on the front of his apron. _KISS THE COOK_ it reads.

Genji grins and does so. Jesse dives into it hungrily, he’s always hungry for affection. The product of a life spent mostly on the run, hiding in safehouses between jobs, working alone.

They break apart gently. McCree frowns down at his apron.

“Now there’s blood on it.”

“Of course there’s blood on it,” Genji says softly. “I’m covered in blood. I’ve just come back from a job. A messy one.”

Jesse scowls. “Late.”

Genji rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna hold that over me forever, aren’t you?”

“Only until tonight, when you can pay me back. _And_ —” he draws out the syllables “—I can think of a fine few ways in which you could do it.” A wink, a flash of his brilliant white teeth in a dangerous mouth.

Genji loves his husband so _much_. He ducks in for another kiss, but Jesse’s strong arm on his chest keeps them apart.

“There ain’t no kissing the cook again until you’ve washed up. And cleaned the broken glass.”

Genji scowls. McCree laughs again, turning to head back downstairs, twirling his revolver around and around in his hand. One of his little habits.

“Dinner’s now at seven. Don’t be late this time.”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic WOULDN'T BEHAVE and tbh neither would jesse or genji.
> 
> i love domestic assassins so much let me live
> 
>  **SCRAPPED SECOND CHAPTER IDEA:**  
>  brother-in-law hanzo comes to dinner and then stays for a week. now u have three assassins sitting around a dinner table.


End file.
